Page 94 of Stolen Dreams

Pulling out my phone, I send a quick message to Ray.

At the rec center. See you in time for dinner.

As I hit send, something moves in my periphery. By the time I look up, it’s gone.

During my entire shift, I fight the urge to be sick.

TWENTY-SEVEN

RAY

Elbowon the table and cheek in his hand, Tucker pokes the barely eaten cannoli cream-stuffed French toast on his plate. Either he isn’t feeling well, or he’s bored out of his mind. My guess is the latter.

For the third weekend in a row, we haven’t left the house. Tucker has no idea why, but he’s miserable over my decision. But I’d rather him be frustrated and safe than scared and hurt.

“Not hungry, bud?” I point at his plate with my fork. “Best stuffed French toast I’ve made.”

Lips pursed, Tucker gives a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.” His tone says otherwise.

I hate that I have to fake enthusiasm to keep Tucker sheltered from all the bullshit in my life, but the chaos that is his mother is not his burden to bear.

Leaning toward him, I nudge his arm. “It’s fine,” I mock then chuckle.

Tucker doesn’t react. He just keeps swirling the fork tines through the filling.

“Talk to me, bud.”

On a dramatic huff, he drops his fork, shoves back from the table, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares at me as if I’mdense. Several minutes pass in silence, each more strained and awkward than the previous.

Heartache blooms beneath my sternum as I hold his narrowed hazel eyes. In keeping Tucker out of the line of fire, by keeping him in the dark and sheltering our lives to stay safe, I’ve undone all the good in his life in the past year and a half. One day, one note, one demand is all it took to destabilize my life and, consequently, his.

I’ve never detested someone the way I do Brianna Werner.

Fuck her.

Tucker’s gaze flits to Kaya, his body softening for a brief second. When his eyes meet mine again, I see every ounce of anger, frustration, and hurt. “Did I do something wrong?” The tinge of sadness in his voice breaks every barrier I have up.

Reaching across the table, I lay my hand near his plate. “No, Tucker.” I shake my head for emphasis. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then why am I being punished?” His fists tighten beneath his elbows.

Wood scrapes tile as I shove away from the table and inch closer to him. I reach for him again, but he pulls back. The single move is a knife to the chest, but one I deserve.

I want to tell him why I’ve kept us home for weeks. Why my mood has been trash. Why I have trouble sleeping at night. But the thought of him stressed over something completely out of his control makes me sick.

It’s reasonable to want my son to have a carefree childhood. To live with joy, laughter, and peace in his heart. No child should have to worry over the bad decisions adults make. They deserve to not suffer because of others’ poor choices.

All my protection of him has done is cut a fresh wound. Because I didn’t explainwhyour lives suddenly went fromfun and wonderful to dull and dreadful, I’ve brought his own insecurities and painful memories to the surface.

“Sorry if I’ve made you feel that way, bud.” I take a deep breath, hold it for three heartbeats, then exhale. “I’ve been under a lot of stress and not handling it well. I promise you’ve done nothing wrong.”

In my periphery, Kaya drops her gaze to her lap. I don’t know if it’s because of my answer or lack thereof.

Tucker’s arms remain rigid against his chest as his eyes narrow to slits. His silence in response is a well-deserved slap to the face.

How do I make this better? I want—need—to make it better.

“Maybe we can go to the pool with Grandma today,” I suggest.

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